Alec

by William di Canzio

  When the Wentworths did stay at Michaelmount, it was for weekends, house parties of several days to which they brought two kinds of guests. Mr. W. invited “businesspeople,” as the butler disdainfully called them, and their tightly corseted wives. On the other hand, Mrs. W. invited an odd lot. Her women appeared either mannish or exotically feminine, affecting styles Alec learned were called Oriental, involving shawls and asymmetrical hems; the men looked pasty and spoke demonstratively. Both her men and her women smoked cigarettes endlessly, sometimes scented with spice or perfume.

  During these house parties, Mr. W.’s men went shooting in the mornings. Alec would guide them, betraying his quails and bright-quilled pheasants to their clumsy aim. Sometimes Mr. W.’s huntsmen were joined by one or two of Mrs. W.’s women (often better shots than Mr. W.’s men), but never by their own wives, nor by Mrs. W.’s men (who preferred to talk and smoke indoors).

  One such party fell at midsummer of 1912. Alec had worked hard all morning: up before dawn, he fed the birds, prepared the guns and trails. He guided the hunters and delivered the shot-ridden fowl to the kitchen; finally, he cleaned the guns before storing them. At midday he ate a good dinner and was getting ready for afternoon chores when the gamekeeper announced the best kind of surprise, a half holiday to honor the season. One of the gardeners told Alec about the fair at nearby Brenford, so the two walked over together.

  In a field the villagers had set up canvas tents, open-sided, festooned with garlands of ivy. These sheltered tables with cheeses and jams to taste and for sale, as well as a makeshift pub with barrels of beer. Little kids gotten up like sprites in face paint and paper wings scampered all over the place. There were games—quoits and ninepins, and a jackboot-toss for the prize of a piglet. While Alec was enjoying a second friendly pint, a young blacksmith slapped him on the back and invited the visitor to run in their St. John’s race.

  “All right, then, why not?” said Alec. He guzzled the rest of his beer before they set off to the starting line. There, to his shock and delight, Alec saw that, honoring a quaint tradition, the Brenford Midsummer Footrace was run naked. He and the blacksmith joined the scores of youths, stretching, jogging in place, their clothes folded and stacked on tables provided. The whole village was watching, including women and girls, with an awning and chairs for the gentry, and nobody thought it was queer.

  Alec was glad he was tipsy; it helped to disarm his shame, not to mention his terror of springing an erection, which he hoped the public circumstances would inhibit. As he set his clothes aside, a parson, eyeing him up and down, lifted his tankard in salute and winked. Alec joined the blacksmith among the runners. The starting pistol fired.

  Two pints of beer drunk quickly, he learned, are poor preparation for a half-mile sprint; he also learned that an actual race run naked is nothing like the picture on an ancient Attic pot. The beer sloshing inside him undermined his footing on the damp grass, so much so that he could hardly pay due homage to the array of lovely boys’ backsides. After the first quarter mile, though, he found his balance and rhythm. He even lifted his head to take in the bright sky and exult in running full-speed in the fresh summer air.

  He finished the race in the middle of the pack. While he was dressing, his blacksmith found him, crushed him with a hug, and insisted on standing him a pint at the pub tent. There a man with a concertina was playing “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” as the crowd sang along. Alec felt a tug at his sleeve from behind. He turned and saw no one till he looked down: there was a child of four or five, a little boy made up as a brownie in some gauzy muslin, absurd and completely enchanting. Alec (who, as the priory’s cook approved, had “a way with children”) understood that the child wanted to tell him something but couldn’t make himself heard over the din. He opened his mouth to yell; Alec put his finger to his lips to signal he should not do so and knelt down beside him.

  “We can talk now. Alec’s my name. What’s yours?”

  “Muthtardtheed.”

  “Pleased to meet ya, Sir Mustardseed,” Alec said and screwed up his face.

  The child laughed at the silliness. “Here,” he said, “I made one for you too.” He held out a circlet of ivy and flowers, like the one he wore in his hair, fastened in back with a profusion of motley ribbons.

  Alec was touched. “Why, thanks very kindly.” He wanted the child to understand that he was sincere in his gratitude, so he took his time admiring the little wreath, engaging the boy’s eyes as he did so. “Oh yes, amazingly intricate … I think this must be quite magical, as are you.”

  Mustardseed beamed at the praise.

  “Now would you please show me how best to wear it—just like you?” Alec sat back on his heels so the child could reach his head better. Mustardseed settled the circlet in place and vanished into his forest of grown-up trousers and dresses.

  Sylvan-crowned, Alec stood. The runners howled; women applauded. The blacksmith called out, “Behold our young lord of the elves!” and a girl kissed him full on the mouth.

  Someone behind him called, “Sutter.”

  He knew he was being addressed, but disliked the tone, the one used by certain house servants with the outdoor staff, so he chose not to answer till the blacksmith nudged him: “I believe you’re wanted.”

  It was Mrs. Wentworth’s maid, Agnes, turned out in a picturesque hat and hobble skirt. Alec said, “Oh. Afternoon, miss.”

  “Didn’t you hear me?”

  “Name’s Scudder. Thought you wor callin’ another.”

  “I’m sure,” she said. “Here. From Mrs. Wentworth.” She gave him a large, heavy coin. “She was pleased with your showing in the race.”

  “I came in thirty-fourth.”

  “Still, she was glad to see you run—as a man from the priory. I’ll tell her you thanked her.” She walked off. Heads turned to follow the mincing steps required by the skirt that caused her hips to sway fetchingly. Alec glanced at the money—more than a month’s wages. He slipped it into his pocket.

  Now trays of sausages were passed around, and the tent was cleared for dancing. Two fiddles, a drum, a banjo, and a flute joined the concertina, their sound irresistibly merry. Alec liked dancing; he led the girl who’d kissed him in a quick one-step to “The Washington Post March,” then, even quicker, to the “Horse Trot” cakewalk. She wore lots of petticoats—that was part of the fun; their weight lent momentum to the giddy twirling. But when the tempos slowed, and the tunes turned lovey-dovey, Alec courteously stepped aside so she might favor another partner: his companion from Michaelmount, the gardener.

  Alec slipped away for more ale among the runners. Being near them tantalized him, as did their easy affection toward one another. The blacksmith made room on the end of a bench, slipping his arm around Alec’s waist so he wouldn’t fall off. It seemed natural for Alec to rest a hand on the fellow’s thigh to balance himself. Relaxed by the beer, warmed by his desires, Alec moved his hand higher. The blacksmith took no notice.

  Later, at sunset, the latest one of the year, someone shouted from out on the field, “It’s ready!” Everyone rushed to where brush and logs were piled on a makeshift scaffold. A torch was touched to the tinder: cheers rose with the flames as St. John’s bonfire roared into the darkening sky.

  * * *

  Next afternoon at Michaelmount, the gamekeeper came to the boathouse to summon his assistant. He found Alec morose and hungover, at work with a plane and shellac on a leaky rowboat.

  “Hullo, Mr. Prentice,” Alec said. “I should finish this up in an hour.”

  “Put it aside now, lad,” Prentice said. “You’re called to the house.”

  “Me? Whatever for?”

  “Not about shootin’, all’s I know. That snotty maid of the missus came to call. I thought maybe the gentlemen changed their mind about havin’ a shoot, so I ast Agnes wouldn’t the lady rather see me? She said it wor you in particular. I said I hoped you’d caused no trouble. She said not at all, only Mrs. W. wanted a word.” He wiped a smudge fro
m Alec’s cheek. “So wash your hands now and get a clean shirt that don’t smell of turpentine, and your Sunday shoes too, not them muddy boots, and go to the house for your word.”

  When Alec reported to the kitchen, the housekeeper looked him over, pushed his hair back from his forehead, and whisked his trousers with a clothes brush before sending him up to the music room. He stopped in front of a pair of tall double doors, one of them ajar. He overheard fragments of talk:

  A man said, “… the choicest fruit on the noblest tree in the garden. To taste it would be worth the loss of Eden.”

  A woman said, “Such raptures at that distance—I trust you thanked God for my field glasses…”

  Alec knocked. The woman called, “Yes, come in.”

  Though it was as big as a ballroom, Mrs. W. used the music room for her private parlor: two crystal-swagged chandeliers hung low enough almost to touch; the woodwork was painted ice-blue and gilded; a row of arched windows pierced one wall; arched mirrors reflected them. Piano and harp stood covered with canvas; otherwise, the space was empty but for a delicate couch and a pair of chairs at the far end, bracketed by screens, where she now sat with her guest. Behind them, on an easel, was a painting of a nocturnal city.

  Mrs. Wentworth beckoned him. His bulky shoes squeaked on the waxed parquetry; the noise, enhanced by the room’s perfect acoustics, humiliated him. Was this why the lady had called him? To make fun of his awkwardness? She was not yet dressed for the day—she wore makeup, rings, and a dressing gown figured with peacocks. He remembered the cook’s complaint about serving two breakfasts: for Mr. W.’s guests on the sideboard at 8:00 and for Mrs. W.’s in their bedrooms at noon.

  “Mr. Risley wants to see the park,” she said. “Please guide him.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Alec said. “Will the gentleman care to shoot?”

  Both hostess and guest chuckled at the question. Risley protested, “I come to praise nature, not to bury her.” His voice was loud; his diction overprecise. He was younger than his hostess, twenty-six or so, but his beard made him seem older, his face and long slender hands pale as a moth.

  “Two o’clock, then, darling?” she said to Risley.

  “Yes. Let’s say I’ll be back by four—for tea, or lunch, or whatever you call it here.”

  “We shan’t worry if you’re late.” Then to Alec she said, “Meet Mr. Risley by the garden gate in twenty minutes. That’s all.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Alec said; he hesitated. “Ma’am—?”

  “What is it?”

  “Only I thank you … for bein’ generous with me yesterday—the race, you know, I’m meanin’—the money…”

  “What? What did Agnes tell you?” she said. “Never mind. She got it wrong. You can thank Mr. Risley.”

  Risley was lighting a cigarette.

  “Then thanks, sir,” Alec said. “But I’m not quite easy acceptin’ so much—for only just horsin’ around like we wor.”

  “Keep it,” Risley said, exhaling the clove-scented smoke. “That race inspired me.”

  In their tour of the woods, they’d walked only as far as the boathouse before Risley got to the point: he wanted sex and would pay. He began his proposal with highfalutin praise, comparing Alec’s face to those in paintings by Giorgione and his form to Mercury’s in Botticelli’s Primavera.

  “Sir, your speech is quite learned, and mostly over my head, as I’m sure I’ve no need to say,” Alec said.

  “Guilty as charged, but one has to say something,” Risley said. “Seems that’s all my crowd ever does—talk, talk, about the Sacred Band of Thebes and Phaedo and Socrates and David and Jonathan and the Myrmidons and formosus Alexis. Then they bat their eyelashes and retire, each to his own chaste bed. As for getting down to business, nothing. I do hate pussyfooting. I mean, what’s the point, among men?”

  “What makes you think I’d be that way inclined?”

  “I go on my hunch—sometimes I’m wrong. But frankly it’s not your ‘inclination’ that interests me, it’s your … well, perfection…”

  “I heard you and the lady, earlier, inside … about field glasses and all.”

  “Then you know!”

  “She don’t mind you sayin’ unspeakable things?”

  “Unspeakable to whom? Florence Nightingale? Trust me, the lady don’t mind, though that husband of hers might call for smelling salts. Truth be told, she’s rather fond of boys who like boys.”

  “That’s what you told her? I’m one of those? That’s why she called me? For a close look at the pervert?”

  “No, no, you’ve got it all wrong. She was just taking care—she thought you might find it awkward if I approached you out of nowhere.”

  “So you’ve shamed me before my employer.”

  “But I’m telling you, there’s no shame—”

  “Word gets around—you don’t know. People hear things, servants, they do, like I did. Have you no fear of the law?”

  Risley sighed. “I fear living in fear. That’s not living at all.”

  These words of courage took Alec off guard. Risley put aside his impatience and cynicism. He even smiled. He had a good set of teeth, and the new expression brightened his eyes and made his face seem less stony. “Come on, now,” he coaxed Alec, “no one’s about. There, in the boathouse. You need do nothing, only relax and enjoy yourself, as I promise you will.”

  Though he might not admit it, Alec was flattered by Risley’s admiration. Being desired was a kind of power, and after last night he’d felt he had none. Too timid to make a play for the blacksmith or anyone else, he’d moped his way back to the priory at midnight alone. (His pal, the gardener, got lucky with the girl they’d both danced with and stayed later.) In his bed, his mind flashed through the day: the naked runners, some sinewy, some fleshy, and that one demigod who’d gazed at him sweetly. He imagined joining with them, in pairs or in orgies, embracing and kissing, giving, receiving, time after time. He jacked himself; it wasn’t enough. Twice more. Then he was able to doze for a bit, but soon he woke in a lather—so again. And once more at dawn.

  Now today he was spent and full of self-loathing and pity. Why not let this rich gasbag have what was left of him? What harm? Let the gentleman service the servant for once, who’d take his damn money and tell him, That’s all, you may go.

  “No,” Alec said, “I don’t fancy you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m certain you heard me.”

  Risley’s smile turned uneasy. “Fancy? But that’s like inclination, it doesn’t matter.”

  “Except for your fancy, we’d not be havin’ this conversation.”

  “Let me just show you,” Risley said. He reached to fondle Alec. Alec gripped his wrist to stop him.

  Risley said, “It’s perverse of you to refuse, when I could give us both great pleasure.”

  Alec said nothing.

  “It’s those runners at Brenford you fancy, I know. See how far you’d get with them. They’d knock out your teeth.”

  Risley might have been right about teeth-knocking, but Alec hated him for saying it. If there had been any chance of his changing his mind, it was gone now. “In fact I’ve had several,” he said out of spite, “and they, me. No money involved, I assure you.”

  Risley lit a cigarette: “I’ll find my own way back to the house.”

  “Take back that money you gave me.”

  “Keep the money, I told you, you shit.” He started off.

  In the boathouse, Alec sat in a corner and sulked. Did they all see through him? Risley, Mrs. W? This was something new about being queer, this innuendo and subterfuge, and it sickened him. He wished he could leave Michaelmount. But where to? No matter—he knew he’d be sacked for sure.

  4

  Not long after, Alec was indeed informed of his dismissal, but Risley had nothing to do with it. Rather, the housekeeper announced that the Wentworths, who were divorcing, had sold the priory to the Anglo-Persian Oil Company. At APOC’s behest, the imperi
al family of Persia would be moving to England; their country seat was to be Michaelmount (where soon ground would be broken for Arabian stables and a cour d’honneur in the style of Persepolis). The emperor’s own staff would replace most of the junior servants. Every effort would be made to find suitable positions for those being let go.

  So during the following winter Alec moved from Dorset to Wiltshire, to a house called Penge, where the head gamekeeper was retiring. The under-gamekeeper, Mr. Ayers (himself not young), was succeeding the retiree, and Alec, now with two years’ training and experience, would be filling the vacated post. It was a promotion for him, with an annual salary of twelve pounds.

  Penge was nothing like Michaelmount. It was truly a family’s home, not a stage set—a small enough family, for sure: just the old widow, Mrs. Durham, and her son, Clive, who had recently finished legal studies, and his new bride, Anne. There was also the widow’s married daughter, who lived in the city and visited often, whom her mother called Pippa.

  At Michaelmount there’d been no end of money; at Penge there was little enough. Maintaining the place was a duty, not a show, for the Durhams. House repairs were put off till they could be no longer, then done as cheaply as possible. They considered the land much more important, since it supported not only themselves but also many others, so they used their available funds chiefly for upkeep of the woods and the farms. At Penge a second gamekeeper was by no means an ornament, as he had been for the Wentworths. Local hunters, issued a license, were allowed to shoot in the park in season. It took the work of two men to care for the game, defend them from polecats and ferrets, manage the licensees’ quotas, chase poachers. Alec was given charge of the dogs: two spaniels, a brood of tuneful beagles, plus a dachshund called Bruno, hardly more than a puppy yet the terror of badgers twice as big. In addition, he was assigned the care of the boathouse, in light of his experience at Michaelmount. Though he worked longer hours and was often called on to help with general chores, he took satisfaction in the greater responsibility. He also approved of how the Durhams cared for the land entrusted to them.